


Death at Buckland Grange

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: Do come. I miss you dreadfully, and I don't see why the Martins should have you all to themselves. There's me and Mother, Uncle Leonard, my brother George, and a cousin from Australia. I fear we can't offer you much in the way of amusement out here in the Marches, so all I can do is throw myself on your mercy and trust that you'll have pity and visit -- your devoted EdithJane accepts her schoolfriend's invitation. But everyone at Buckland Grange has a secret, and when Edith's uncle is murdered everything comes to the surface.





	1. Buckland Grange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabel/gifts).



Edith had obviously been waiting on the steps. 'Here you are at last, Jane!' she exclaimed as she ran out to meet the fly. 'I'm so sorry we couldn't come to meet you. Of all the times for the wretched gig to have gone in for repair! I could _shake_ George! And was your dean's wife fearfully tedious?'

Jane smiled and let the driver help her down. 'Dear Edith!' She looked around her. 'So this is your moated grange. Except it isn't moated.'

'Only if the Teme floods,' Edith replied, laughing. 'You're not seeing it at its best, I'm afraid. It was lovely here in June.'

Today a half-hearted mist loitered. To Jane, used to the honey coloured stone of the Fens and the sunshine of Florence, the house looked grey and forbidding, its stone stark in the damp air. Still, a couple of bright shrubs went some way to mitigate the effect, and a few late roses clung defiantly to the trellis that extended around the side of the house.

 _Do come,_ Edith had written. _I miss you dreadfully, and I don't see why the Martins should have you all to themselves. There's me and Mother, Uncle Leonard, my brother George, and a cousin from Australia. I fear we can't offer you much in the way of amusement out here in the Marches, so all I can do is throw myself on your mercy and trust that you'll have pity and visit -_

_\- your devoted Edith_

Now Edith's smile was bright, her step light, and to anyone who was not Jane Marple she must have appeared as free from care as a butterfly. But Jane had known her too long – at school, and since – to be hookwinked.

'What's the matter, Edith?' she asked as they went through the front door into a long, dimly-lit, hall.

'The matter? Nothing's the matter,' Edith said. 'Let me show you upstairs so you can wash your hands. Roberts will bring your things up. No,' she continued, as they proceeded down the length of the hall and turned back on themselves to mount the handsome mahogany staircase, 'it's _you_ I'm worried about, after that dreadful young man... Hatton?'

'Hutton,' Jane responded, rather curtly. She had no wish to recall Oswald Hutton to her memory. Why must Edith prattle so? It was not at all like her.

'We might have put you here, if Kenneth wasn't staying,' Edith said, indicating a door on the left at the top of the stairs, 'but you're much better next to me, and not having the whole household crashing past you at the break of day. We keep what they call _country hours_ here, you see.'

'I suppose we are in the country,' Jane said mildly.

The landing turned back on itself, and Edith led her along it. 'Now, this is Mother's room; then there's mine (it used to be Father's dressing room, though he never used it) and this is yours. I'll leave you to settle in; and tea is in the drawing room – the middle door in the hall – in twenty minutes.' Impulsively, she bent and kissed Jane on the cheek. 'You can't imagine how lovely it is to have you here.'

She left Jane to refresh herself in peace, but reappeared at the door well before the twenty minutes had elapsed. 'Have you everything you need?' she asked anxiously.

'Yes, everything,' Jane said, 'I'm quite all right.'

'Good,' Edith said, twisting her hands, and seemingly having nothing else to say.

Jane thought again that this was not like her carefree friend. By now they would normally have been deep into stories and news of mutual friends. She ventured, 'You said that your uncle was here, as well as your brother and cousin? Is the cousin the child of your uncle?'

'Oh, no – Uncle Leonard is a bachelor. Cousin Kenneth is the son of Aunt Alice, who married a man from Brighton, would you believe, and went out to Australia before George and I were born.'

'And is he your mother's brother?'

'No – Father's.' Edith picked up a framed photograph from the chest-of-drawers and showed it to Jane. 'Here,' she said; 'this is the three of them, the three partners in Wilson and Blake, you know. Father and Uncle Leonard and Uncle Curran – he wasn't really an uncle, but he was my godfather – is in the middle.'

Jane looked at the picture with interest. The resemblance between the two brothers was obvious. In life, Curran Blake must have been a striking man, with dark hair and brows, and three inches on either of the Wilsons. In the photograph, he stood with one hand on the shoulder of a slight, fair-haired woman, who sat on a low armchair with a baby in her arms.

'That was thirty years ago,' Edith said. 'Now Uncle Leonard is the only one left.' She shook herself. 'Come, let's go down to tea.'


	2. The Wilsons

George Wilson was already in the drawing room. A few moments passed before he noticed the pair of them and jumped, almost resentfully, to his feet. He looked, Jane thought, very like his sister, with the same blue eyes and chestnut hair springing from a high forehead; and the air of gloom that hovered round him like a miasma was perhaps the masculine equivalent of Edith's nervous verbosity.

'Jane, this is my brother George,' Edith said, glaring at him. 'George, Miss Jane Marple.'

'How do you do,' they both said.

George Wilson added, 'I trust you experienced no inconvenience on your journey.' It was clear that the matter was of perfect indifference to him.

'Thank you,' Jane said, 'it was very pleasant.'

They were saved from further painful conversation by the arrival of two gentlemen, the older one of whom Jane recognised from the photograph as Mr Leonard Wilson. The younger one, she worked out by process of elimination, must be the cousin from Australia.

Edith made the introductions. '… My uncle, Mr Leonard Wilson... Mr Kenneth Hereward, my cousin...'

'Miss Marple! What a pleasure!' Mr Kenneth Hereward was an engaging young man with a lithe, athletic figure and hazel eyes. Jane smiled as he took her hand.

Mr Leonard Wilson bowed, and murmured shyly that he was delighted.

Edith seemed no less nervous than she had been before; she launched into a rather involved explanation of how she and Jane came to know each other. George Wilson paid this no attention whatsoever; Kenneth Hereward was almost embarrassingly interested. Rather to Jane's relief, it was brought to a premature conclusion by the entrance of Mrs Wilson, who managed to restore equilibrium simply by sweeping into the room. She was an imposing figure: tall, and with a couple of white strands streaking the deep russet of her hair. Her children's squabbles subsided at her presence.

She smiled evenly around the room. 'Here we are, my dears! Miss Marple, I'm delighted to meet you. Edith has often mentioned you.'

It was not, Jane thought as they shook hands, that Mrs Wilson was intimidating. She simply made things happen the way she wanted them to happen. She rang the bell, and tea appeared. She nodded at Mr Hereward, and he passed the teacups. George and Edith both abandoned their private troubles and made an attempt at polite conversation. Even Edith's shy uncle seemed to be rendered perfectly at ease by her presence – until he got his hands tangled and spilled tea.

'Not to worry,' said Mrs Wilson, 'this dress will wash.'

She smiled as if nothing was wrong, nothing at all.

  
That evening they were joined for dinner by a neighbour, Mr Sandys. He was a man of about forty years of age, who greeted Jane with courtesy but whose eyes drifted often towards Edith.

Mrs Wilson looked at the company with what seemed to be genuine pleasure. 'George, dear,' she said, 'would you take Miss Marple in, and perhaps Mr Sandys can take Edith, and Kenneth...'

Mr Hereward proffered his arm to Mrs Wilson with a respectful smile.

Jane did her best at dinner, but, placed as she was between the sullen George and the shy Mr Wilson, found conversation difficult. On the other side of the table, Mr Sandys seemed to be making equally poor headway with Edith. Only Mrs Wilson and Mr Hereward were chattering away without reserve.

Rather desperately, Jane remarked on the dinner service, which was of a rather unusual design.

'Ah,' said Mr Leonard proudly, 'that's one of ours. Wilson and Blake, but not one you'd necessarily recognise. My brother George' (he nodded at the nine inch space between Mrs Wilson and her son as if honouring an empty chair) 'designed the pattern himself. For their wedding anniversary.'

'It's beautiful,' Jane said.

Mr Wilson looked pleased. 'Isn't it? George was always the artist, and Curran – Mr Blake, that is – was the businessman.'

'What was your specialism, then, Mr Wilson?'

He frowned thoughtfully. 'I suppose you could say that I was the craftsman. I know how clay works, you see.'

  
After dinner, Mr Sandys implored 'dear Miss Wilson' to play, and offered to turn the pages.

Dear Miss Wilson unearthed a very staid minuet by Handel and played it with metronomic correctness. Jane, who had heard Edith play Chopin nocturnes and been moved almost to tears, drew her own conclusions.

'Would anyone care to sing?' Edith asked at the end. She glanced at Jane.

George Wilson stopped scowling for long enough to mutter, 'Hereward will sing – won't you.'

Mr Hereward rose with alacrity. 'One for our fair guest,' he said, and handed Edith _The Bloom is on the Rye_. Edith blushed scarlet with, Jane supposed, second-hand embarrassment, but played the introduction tolerably well.

'Well - _pretty Jane_ -' he said at the end, 'what did you make of that?'

'You have a very pleasing voice, Mr Hereward,' Jane said, mildly discomfited. 'It's only a pity it's well past summer, never mind spring.'

'Ah,' said Hereward, 'listen to her! Her heart's as hard as brazzle.'

Leonard Wilson coughed reprovingly, and Edith looked yet more embarrassed. Jane darted a sympathetic glance at her. 'Do you sing, Mr Sandys?' she asked.

Mr Sandys did. He produced _The Last Rose of Summer_ , which was rather more appropriate to the season and offended no one; after which the party broke up.

At least, Mr Sandys left, with a promise to call in the morning, and the women prepared to go to bed. As Jane followed Edith up the stairs, she heard Leonard Wilson say, 'Kenneth? Might I speak to you a moment?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Pretty Jane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfVhaOGioio)
> 
> [The Last Rose of Summer](https://youtu.be/ReSOGJCNiJE?t=1m21s)


	3. Jane and Edith

Jane slept deeply and woke refreshed; she felt entirely equal to 'country hours'. Looking out of the window, she saw that it was a bright, clear morning with no trace of yesterday's mist. The rising sun touched the tops of the trees with an old-gold light. A jay trotted across the lawn with a satisfied air that suggested that it felt a justifiable pride in its possessions.

The landing, by contrast, was dim; the sun had not yet worked its way around to the south-facing window at the top of the stairs. Only a sliver of sunlight reached through the gap where the door to the servants' quarters had been left ajar, at the other end of the landing. Jane shivered – there was a draught coming from that direction, too – and did not linger.

All the party, bar George, was present at breakfast. Mrs Wilson presided, still maintaining that tacit sovereignty over the breakfast table and everyone around it. Edith still seemed jumpy; Leonard Wilson was even quieter than usual. Only Mr Hereward seemed oblivious to the thick atmosphere, and announced his intention of taking a walk.

'Would you like to come, Miss Marple?' he offered – 'oh, but I'm sure Edith would rather you saw the house and the garden with her.'

Edith was biting her lip. Jane judged it more prudent to have found the previous day's travel too fatiguing for strenuous exercise today, and declined politely. Edith looked relieved, and Hereward bowed and left them.

'George had better make haste if he wants breakfast,' Mrs Wilson remarked. 'I won't have Mabel waiting around to clear.'

In the event, George Wilson appeared just as his uncle got up from the table.

'Good morning, George,' Leonard Wilson said, before announcing, 'I'll be in my study,' to no one in particular.

'What are you doing this morning, my dears?' Mrs Wilson asked the rest of them.

George said that he had some letters to write, and that he would be in his room. Then, looking thunderous, he returned to his toast.

'Jane and I have so much to catch up on,' Edith said. 'I don't think we shall go out, though; it looks as if it might rain.'

Privately, Jane suspected that she wished to rule out any chance of running into Mr Hereward. Why? she wondered.

Mrs Wilson raised her eyebrows. 'Very well,' she said. 'You might look in on your uncle and see if he would care for coffee. I must go and speak to Mrs Cobb.'

She bustled away.

  
As Jane settled herself in the morning room, Edith's clear voice rang out like a bell, carrying through the two open doors and across the hall. 'Uncle Leonard – would you like coffee?'

Jane could not hear the answer, but Edith said, 'No, not at all – but I'll let Mother know.'

Then nothing for some minutes, until Edith's footsteps came back along the hall. There must, Jane deduced, be another way out of Mr Wilson's study.

But all such thoughts were put out of her mind when Edith came into the morning room, plumped herself down on the sofa, and patted the space next to her. 'Now, Jane,' she said, 'tell me everything. It's been such an age! How was Isabel's wedding? Is Mr West really as handsome as she makes out? Is it true that Carrie Louise is marrying some antiquated Swede, and, if so, why? And what does Ruth make of it?'

Jane laughed and attempted to satisfy Edith's curiosity as swiftly as possible. From there they were drawn into reminiscences of their schoolgirl days, and exclamations over how much had happened in those few years since they had left Florence and the _pensionnat_.

Then a thought occurred to her. 'I meant to ask you, Edith – where does the phrase "hard as brazzle" come from?'

Edith flushed. 'It's what they say in the Potteries. I believe that brazzle is iron pyrites – fool's gold, you know. Father used to say it.'

'Is it – a little vulgar?'

'The way Kenneth used it,' Edith said fiercely, ' _yes_.'

Jane laid a tentative hand over Edith's. 'I wasn't offended, Edith, only curious.'

Suddenly, Edith sobbed and groped for a handkerchief. 'Jane, dear Jane, I wouldn't hurt you for the world.'

'No, my dearest,' Jane said, puzzled, 'I never imagined that you would.'

Edith glanced up; then, seeing something that distressed her further, buried her face in Jane's shoulder. 'And here comes that wretched Mr Sandys – probably come to make a declaration – and Mother will want – I can't see him, Jane, I can't!'

Jane looked from Edith to the window (through which Mr Sandys could indeed be seen strutting up the drive) to the open door. She extricated herself gently from Edith's arms, got up, and peeped around the edge of the doorframe. A maid was sweeping the far end of the hall, demonstrating a heroic lack of curiosity, but it was otherwise deserted. The door to Mr Wilson's study remained firmly shut. Jane retreated back into the morning room and closed that door; then she returned to the sofa and the sobbing Edith.

'Why don't you tell me about it, dear?' she suggested.

'Oh! if only I could! Jane, dearest Jane, what will you think of me? It's all so ridiculous...' A fresh bout of tears shook her.

(Somewhere in the depths of the house, the clang of the doorbell sounded.)

'Edith,' Jane said firmly, 'I do not believe that I _could_ think of you other than with the profoundest love and respect.'

(Were they going to answer the door?)

'Jane, I love you so, and you will be so disappointed...' Edith was red-eyed and her hair was coming loose. Jane's heart twisted inside her, and she bent and kissed the tear from Edith's cheek.

('I believe Miss Wilson is indisposed, sir,' the maid was saying, 'but I'll see if Mrs Wilson is at home.')

Jane had kissed Edith before, chaste, ladylike kisses at greeting and departing, kisses that signalled a devoted but entirely proper friendship. This was not like that. Edith was clinging to her, returning kiss for kiss, trembling like a frightened animal in Jane's arms, and her own heart was beating fast.

'I thought... Mr Hutton...' Tears were streaming down Edith's face. 'In your letter, you seemed so...'

'No, no,' Jane said, softly. Mr Hutton had been a disappointment in every respect, and she could not bring herself either to think of him or to regret him. 'He's engaged to someone else now, anyway.'

'I'm glad. Is that wicked of me?'

('Mr Sandys! How lovely to see you again so soon!... No, indeed, you did.')

'Sweetest, _no_. I'm glad, too.' She pulled Edith closer. There could be no going back from this. Surely, Jane thought distractedly, they must go forward together, or never speak again. 'But Edith,' she said, 'you _must_ tell me what the matter is.'

Edith sat up and drew a long, shuddering breath. 'Oh, Jane,' she said. 'I've done the most terrible thing.'

('Nonsense,' Mrs Wilson said, 'she's just here.' And she rapped at the door. 'Edith, my dear,' she said as she entered, 'Mr Sandys has come to propose an intriguing excursion.')


	4. Leonard!

'Mr Sandys has come,' Mrs Wilson said, 'to propose an intriguing excursion. The archaeological excavations at Ludlow...'

'Indeed?' Jane was surprised by how steady her own voice sounded. 'That sounds very interesting,' she said.

Edith's hand tightened on her own. 'Will the weather hold?'

'Don't be ridiculous, Edith,' Mrs Wilson said, 'there isn't a cloud in the sky. We shall all go. I'll have Cook prepare us a picnic, but we had better wait for Mr Hereward to get back.' She glanced at the two girls and lifted her eyebrows slightly. 'Edith, perhaps you should wash your face. Mr Sandys, do come and sit down. Would you care for coffee? Miss Marple, I wonder if you'd go and ask my brother-in-law if he would like to accompany us. Don't worry: he won't mind your disturbing him.'

Feeling rather as if she had been run over by a steamroller, Jane nodded. 'Of course.'

She crossed the hall and knocked at the door of Mr Wilson's study. Thinking that perhaps he had not heard her, she knocked again, louder; and, when there was still no reply, she turned the handle.

At first she thought that the room was empty. Perhaps, she thought, Mr Wilson had never been in his study at all? But no, Edith had been in there, had spoken to him, and he had surely not left it since.

She took a step into the room – and then she saw him.

He lay sprawled face-down on the carpet in front of the fire, his right arm outstretched as if grasping for the book that was tumbled just out of reach. Automatically, Jane looked to see what it was: the first volume of a geological gazette. She could see the other two safe in their places on the bookcase, and, above them, an empty space in the row of stones and fossils.

A brownish, porous-looking rock lay a couple of inches from his head. Jane could not see his face, but the dark stain on the carpet told a sinister story.

'Help!' she cried. 'Come quickly!'

Mrs Wilson was the first into the room. 'What on earth is the matter?' Then she saw, and her voice changed. ' _Leonard!_ ' She left Jane in the doorway and stepped carefully across to him, took his left hand, and felt for a pulse.

Edith and her brother were crowding around Jane. 'Uncle Leonard,' Edith breathed. ' _No._ '

Mrs Wilson looked up. 'I'm very much afraid,' she said, 'that there is nothing to be done.'

An obscenely cheerful voice shattered the hush. 'Hullo!' said Hereward. 'What are you all doing standing around in the hall?'

Edith looked around. 'You've been scratched, Mr Hereward,' she said irrelevantly.

'Eh?' He glanced down. 'Oh, so I have. Must have been a rowan, or a bramble, or some such.'

It scarcely seemed the moment, Jane thought, to ask if he had had a pleasant walk. Yet she could think of nothing else to say, so she remained silent.

Hereward looked from one shocked face to another. 'What's the matter?' he asked.

'Oh, Kenneth!' Edith burst out. 'It's Uncle Leonard. He's dead!'

Edith's wail seemed to shake Mrs Wilson out of her stupor. 'Someone must go for the police,' she said, 'and the doctor. Kenneth... no, you don't know where to find them. George. Quick as you can. Fetch Dr Mayhew, and inform the police.'

George nodded, and left them.


	5. Inspector Gerrard

He returned in a little under three quarters of an hour, with Dr Mayhew and three police officers, who were introduced as Constable Tuck, Sergeant Williams and Inspector Gerrard respectively. It seemed to Jane, who was no expert in police matters, that George had taken pot luck at the police station and done rather well. The family was bundled into the morning room while the doctor examined the body; and the police, the study.

After a quarter of an hour or so, the inspector tapped discreetly on the door. 'I beg your pardon. If I might speak to each member of the party in private...'

'Under normal circumstances,' Mrs Wilson said, 'I would advise the use of the study. However...'

'Quite,' the inspector agreed tactfully.

'I think the drawing room would be best,' Mrs Wilson said. 'Next door. Do you need anything? Tea, paper and pencil...?'

Smiling, he assured her that he required nothing beyond perhaps a glass of water. 'I should like to speak first to the person who was first upon the scene, so to speak,' he said.

Jane glanced around and rose.

Mrs Wilson looked exquisitely ambivalent. 'Do you mind, Miss Marple? I can't think how I am going to explain this to your mother.'

'I'd rather get it over with,' Jane said. She followed Inspector Gerrard and Sergeant Williams into the drawing room and watched, incongruously amused, as they engaged in a wordless discussion.

The inspector looked rather uncomfortable and cleared his throat a few times before speaking. 'This will be distressing to you, I'm afraid. If you find yourself becoming... that is, if you'd rather we stopped, say the word, and I'll ask Mrs Wilson to find, ah, some smelling salts or something.'

'Of course,' she said, 'but I trust that won't happen.' It seemed faintly absurd that she should have to be the one reassuring him.

He nodded, and cleared his throat one last time. 'You're a friend of Miss Wilson's, I understand?'

'Indeed. We were at school together in Florence a few years ago.'

'But you had never visited her at home?'

'No.'

'And you arrived here...?'

'Only yesterday.'

'Perhaps,' said the inspector, 'you would be able to give me your impressions of the rest of the family.'

Jane nodded. 'It's awkward, of course, as a guest...' She bit her lip. 'But you need to know. I see that.'

'You might begin,' Inspector Gerrard suggested, 'by telling me who you met, and when, and what you thought of them.'

That was an easier way to think about it, and Jane rehearsed the experiences and impressions of the past twenty-four hours without much difficulty.

'I see. I see.' Inspector Gerrard signalled with a cough that he was now approaching the delicate part. 'Miss Marple. I understand that you were the first to discover Mr Wilson's body.'

'As far as I know,' she said.

The inspector did not quite manage to disguise his expression of surprise. He said, however, 'And can you describe how he was lying?'

'Face down. One arm up above his head – the right arm. But you would have seen him. Other than Mrs Wilson feeling his pulse, nobody touched him.'

The inspector nodded. 'You said, _as far as I know..._ '

'Certainly I was the one who raised the alarm.'

'You believe that somebody might have been there before you?'

Jane shook her head. 'No, not necessarily. I'm only being pedantic. But he looked,' she said, 'as if he had been there a while, so it's surely a possibility. Does the doctor think...?'

He frowned. 'The doctor doesn't like to say, without doing a proper examination. Of course, with his being so close to the fireplace, it becomes more difficult to say. Do you believe that the rest of the Wilsons suspect it was murder?'

'They would all like it to be an accident, of course,' she said, 'but none of them really think it was. And it couldn't have been, because if he'd reached up with his left hand to get that book – and he was naturally left handed; I noticed it yesterday – he couldn't have knocked the rock down.'

The inspector nodded thoughtfully. 'I'm inclined to agree with you.' He was silent for a few moments. Then he said, 'Can you tell me about the movements of the household this morning, so far as you are aware of them?'

'Let's see,' Jane said. 'When I came down for breakfast, everyone except Mr George Wilson was there; he came down ten minutes or so later. Mr Leonard Wilson left at that point, saying that he was going to his study. The rest of us finished breakfast. Mr Hereward was the first to leave; he went out for a walk. Then Mrs Wilson went to the kitchen, and Edith and I went to the morning room. Mr George Wilson, I suppose, finished his breakfast and went upstairs to his room. He said that he was going to.'

'So that was the last time you saw Mr Leonard Wilson alive? At breakfast?'

'Yes – no – yes.'

He pounced on that. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Edith went to see if he wanted coffee. I heard her ask him.'

'But you didn't hear him answer?'

'No,' Jane said, miserably. It had been too much to hope that he would miss that point.

He continued, 'You didn't see Mr George Wilson at all after you got up from the breakfast table?'

'No.'

'I suppose that Mr Hereward really did go out for a walk?' the inspector suggested.

'Oh, yes,' Jane said. 'When he came back his hand was scratched and his boots were muddy.'

'Could he have gone out and come back in again?'

The question distracted her momentarily from her unvoiced fears. 'Not by the front door. He had gone out, you see, by the time the rest of us finished breakfast, and after that Miss Wilson and I were in the morning room, looking out over the drive. I'm almost sure we would have seen him if he'd come back. We saw Mr Sandys.' She considered. 'You'd have to ask the staff about the back door, of course, but it doesn't seem likely to me.'

'We will,' the inspector said, grimly. 'We will.'

'You suspect Mr Hereward, then?' Jane ventured.

'We suspect nobody, Miss Marple. Or, to put it another way, we suspect everybody.'

Somehow, it was not as reassuring as he no doubt meant it to be.


	6. Mrs Wilson's evidence

Jane returned to the morning room to find a subdued gathering.

'What did they want to know?' Edith asked.

'Oh, you know,' Jane said, evasively, as she went to sit next to her on the sofa. 'What one would expect, I suppose.'

For the first time, George Wilson addressed a direct remark to her unprompted either by his mother or by convention. 'Was it just about – how you found him?'

'George,' Mrs Wilson said, 'Miss Marple has already undergone a very distressing experience and, no doubt, has been obliged to answer some unpleasant questions. You needn't ask her to dwell on it.'

He mumbled an apology and stared down at his shoes.

Jane glanced around the room. Mrs Wilson, looking suddenly very alone, sat with straight back in the chair opposite her and Edith. Kenneth Hereward stood with his elbow propped on the mantelpiece. George Wilson had an armchair next to the fireplace, and sat slumped forwards with his head in his hands. Mr Sandys was seated a little way apart from the family; he had chosen what looked to be the least comfortable chair available, and seemed to be profoundly embarrassed by the events of the last few hours. Edith was, Jane suspected, safe from a proposal today, at least.

Edith herself said, 'And to think the last thing I ever said to him, the last thing that anybody ever said to him, probably, was, would he like some coffee! If only I'd known...' She subsided again into silence.

'What did he want to talk to you about last night, Hereward?' George Wilson asked suddenly.

Kenneth Hereward coloured. 'It wasn't relevant.'

Edith grasped Jane's hand. 'How can you know that?'

He flashed a suspicious look at her; then at Jane; then at Mr Sandys. 'I'll tell the police, of course, if they want to know. But it was a _personal_ matter, and I'd rather not go into it.'

Edith said nothing to that, but Jane felt the softness of her breath – whether a sigh of despair or of relief, she couldn't tell.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. 'Come in!' Mrs Wilson called.

'Mrs Wilson,' the inspector said. 'If you don't mind, we'd like to speak to you next.'

'Of course.' She rose, swaying a little on her feet.

The inspector's voice changed. 'Mrs Wilson?'

Edith put out a hand to steady her mother.

'Forgive me,' Mrs Wilson said, apparently somewhat irritated by her own weakness. 'I don't know what came over me... the shock...'

The inspector looked despairing. 'If you're not well, Mrs Wilson...'

'No,' she said, 'you must do your duty. Perhaps if someone could stay with me...' An unfamiliar expression of indecision fluttered over her face as she glanced around the room. 'I'm afraid,' she said at last, 'it will have to be Miss Marple.'

'Dear madam,' Mr Sandys said uncomfortably, 'I'd happily spare you and the young lady the ordeal.'

Mrs Wilson very conspicuously did not look at Edith as she replied. 'I'm afraid that wouldn't be suitable.'

'We shall,' said the inspector, 'make every attempt to avoid unpleasantness.'

'If I can be of any use,' Jane said, 'I'm only too happy.' She rose and offered Mrs Wilson her arm.

'Thank you,' Mrs Wilson said, taking it. She recovered her autocratic manner sufficiently to say, 'Edith – would you ask Mabel to bring more coffee?'

Inspector Gerrard led the way to the drawing room. When the coffee had been poured and the door closed, he began, 'Mrs Wilson – I'm sorry to speak of such sordid things at such a distressing time for you – but are you able to tell me about the disposition of your brother-in-law's property?'

She nodded. 'You will need to ask Leonard's solicitors – Bradley and Hughes – for the details, but I can give you a general idea. My brother-in-law never married, as you know. He therefore directed that, after a very substantial legacy to George, his godson, his fortune be divided equally between any other nieces and nephews.'

The inspector glanced at his notes. 'Miss Edith Wilson and Mr Kenneth Hereward? There are no others?'

'That is correct.' Mrs Wilson drew herself up slightly, as if anticipating the next question.

'And would that – ah – make a material difference to any of them, to the best of your knowledge?'

'It might to Kenneth – Mr Hereward. I don't know whether his father left a great deal (he died in Australia, you know). From my own observation, I can say that his outgoings are modest and he does not appear to be in difficulties.'

The inspector nodded. 'And Mr George Wilson? Miss Edith?'

'As for my own children,' Mrs Wilson said with a wry smile, 'both were left an ample sum by my husband's death. And Edith – well, Mr Curran Blake, who was a partner in the firm of Wilson and Blake together with my husband and his brother, left her his entire fortune. Edith is a very rich woman.'

'Did that surprise you?' the inspector asked. 'Did Mr Blake have no family of his own?'

'Edith was his god-daughter,' Mrs Wilson said, by way of an answer, 'and Mr Blake was very fond of the entire family.'

Inspector Gerrard raised his eyebrows, but changed the subject. 'Now, Mrs Wilson, your own movements. When did you last see your brother-in-law?'

'At breakfast. He left the table early and went straight to his study.'

'And what did you do?'

'After breakfast,' Mrs Wilson said, 'I went to the kitchen to speak to Mrs Cobb. We had a number of things to discuss. Then Tabitha came to tell me that Mr Sandys had called. Then – we heard Miss Marple call for help...'

'Quite,' the inspector said. 'But up, until the arrival of Mr Sandys, you were in the kitchen?'

'That is correct.'

'So nobody could have reached the study without your seeing them.'

'Not unless they had been hiding in the larder,' Mrs Wilson said drily, 'or unless they came down the back stairs.' She bit her lip.

The inspector did not appear to notice. 'Well,' he said, 'I think I don't need to trouble you any further – for the moment, at least.'


	7. Secrets

Edith was waiting in the hall, a worried expression on her face.

'Are you all right, Mother?' she asked. 'Was he horrid?'

'No, not in the least,' Mrs Wilson said sharply. At the sound of footsteps from the other direction, she looked around. 'Mrs Cobb?'

Mrs Cobb appeared to be distinctly unimpressed. 'Really, Mrs Wilson, this is too much. Quite apart from _murder_. Mr George knows perfectly well not to leave his boots on the landing after Tabitha has swept, and there they were this morning, Mabel tells me, and now I suppose he's going to try and sneak them in tomorrow, as if Thomas has nothing better to do with his time. And I won't have young men bothering my girls...'

The inspector opened the door, looked at the women, raised his eyebrows, and closed the door again.

Edith and Jane tiptoed away.

'Mother just lets her run down like a clock,' Edith whispered as she opened the door to the morning room. 'One can't really blame her, though; this must all be frightfully tiresome.'

'Hullo!' Hereward said as Edith and Jane entered, 'how's Mrs Wilson? Not unwell, I trust?'

'No,' Edith said, 'she's talking to Mrs Cobb. The world still turns, you know, and, if we're lucky and she gets past the question of Mabel and young men's boots, there'll be lunch.'

There was a discreet tap on the door and the inspector insinuated himself into the company. 'If we might speak with Mr Hereward now...?'

Hereward took a step towards the door before hesitating. 'If you wouldn't rather speak to Miss Wilson first...?'

'Oh,' Inspector Gerrard said agreeably, 'by all means, if Miss Wilson is willing. Do you have any particular reason for this request?'

'Only that I think Miss Wilson would prefer to be the one to explain...'

Miss Wilson herself shattered the pleasantry with something that was almost a scream. 'What do you mean, Kenneth?'

Hereward looked apologetically at Edith. 'I think, my love, that we'd better confess, hadn't we?' He turned to the inspector. 'The fact of the matter is, Miss Wilson and I are engaged.'

' _I beg your pardon._ ' That was Mrs Wilson, who must at last have seen off Mrs Cobb. 'Edith, is this true?'

Edith laid her head on Jane's shoulder and wept.

'Uncle Leonard had found out somehow,' Hereward explained. 'That was why he called me to speak with him.'

The inspector cleared his throat. 'I take it he disapproved?'

Hereward shook his head ruefully.'You could say that.'

Mrs Wilson glanced at the inspector. 'Miss Marple, would you take Edith upstairs to lie down? She's very upset.'

Jane nodded, and, taking Edith by the hand, led her upstairs to her bedroom. Edith threw herself face down on the bed and sobbed. 'They'll think it was me,' she hiccoughed, when at last she was able to speak. 'That gives me a _motive_ , doesn't it? If only they knew!'

'It's not true, then?' Jane asked carefully, ignoring as best she could the roiling mess of her own emotions.

Edith shook her head miserably. 'No. But perhaps he thinks it's true. He asked me over and over! I let him kiss me once, and then he stopped asking me. Oh, Jane, what must you think of me? But I was so lonely and weak, and he's so charming – and I was jealous, and I needn't have been, but I thought you didn't care for me... oh, it's all such a mess! And – I can't bear that poor Uncle Leonard should have died thinking that about me, that I'd deliberately deceive him!'

Jane passed her a clean handkerchief. 'My poor love,' she said, 'it's all been too much.' She fancied that she heard the sound of footsteps, out on the landing: was it someone coming to fetch her or Edith? No: they passed on by.

Edith scrubbed at her eyes. 'And if not me, then who was it? Not Mother, she was in the kitchen all the while. Kenneth was out of the house...'

'Mr Sandys?' Jane suggested, knowing as she did so that it could not have been Mr Sandys.

'Why should he? Even if one could believe he thought I'd ever marry him, Uncle Leonard's death doesn't make me a huge amount richer than I already am. Besides, they were good friends.'

Jane sighed. 'Can we be sure of that? Did your uncle have any enemies? Someone he wronged back in the Potteries days?'

'I doubt it – Mr Sandys has lived here for years – and surely Uncle Leonard would have known him.' Edith bit her lip. 'Wait, though – there was something, but no, it wasn't Uncle Leonard; it was Uncle Curran.'

'Perhaps they wanted revenge on the whole firm,' Jane suggested. 'Do you know who it was, or why?'

'Oh, no,' Edith said, 'it was like the poem. You know. _Oh no – we never mention her!_ I think it was a him, though. At least, I always assumed it was.'

'Anyway,' Jane said reluctantly, 'Mr Sandys was never alone in the hall. Tabitha was there all the while.'

'Which leaves me,' Edith said, 'and George. But Jane, he was upstairs all morning, and he couldn't have come down without Mr Sandys and Tabitha seeing him. Unless -'

'Unless he used the back stairs, yes,' Jane said gently. 'That door in the corner of your uncle's study, it must lead that way.'

'Yes: there's a little vestibule, and then the stairs come off the corridor; the kitchen's at the end and, before you get there, there's the larder and the butler's pantry...'

Jane recognised the signs of panic reasserting itself. 'Edith,' she said, 'calm down.'

'Jane...' Edith breathed, 'they think I did it.'

'Don't be afraid,' Jane said, with a confidence that she did not feel. 'I know that you didn't.'

Edith's mouth twisted unhappily.

'Before,' Jane said, 'I was half-afraid that you might have killed your uncle – you could have done it, you know, you're a strong girl, and it wouldn't have taken much force. Now I know that you can't have done.'

There was a tentative knock on the door. 'Excuse me, ma'am,' said Mabel, 'but, if Miss Wilson is feeling better, the gentlemen from the police would like to see her.'

They glanced at each other. 'Very well,' said Edith, with more than a suggestion of her mother's dignity. 'I'm ready.'

'Would you like me with you?' Jane asked, but Edith shook her head.

'No, dearest. All I can do is tell the truth. She stood up, shook out her skirts, and left the room.

Jane stood at the door and watched them go, the one to the left, the other to the right: Mabel towards the servants' quarters, and Edith down the stairs.

At the far end of the landing, George Wilson's door opened just an inch, and closed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Oh no! we never mention her](http://digital.nls.uk/english-ballads/archive/74894887?mode=transcription)


	8. Footsteps

Feeling utterly helpless, Jane took up the photograph, felt the weight of the silver frame in her hands, and laid it down again, next to the vase that held a single rose.

She was missing something very important, she knew. She could almost feel it, hovering just out of sight.

Leonard Wilson had asked to speak to Kenneth Hereward. Kenneth Hereward was secretly engaged to Edith, or thought he was. Mr Sandys had come to make a declaration. Edith cared for Jane. Edith was already a very rich woman in her own right. George Wilson was the main beneficiary of his uncle's Will. Mrs Wilson was the only survivor of her generation.

Jane sighed. No: what she was missing was none of those things.

_My pretty Jane... The last rose of summer... Mariana in the moated grange..._ But it wasn't moated. And Mr Sandys was courting Edith, not her mother. And Mr Hereward wasn't interested in Jane at all.

It was all wrong; everything was wrong.

She heard footsteps on the landing, a man's footsteps: not light, but hesitant. They paused before the door, and then continued on their way towards the back of the house. She heard a door open, and then close again.

'The boots,' she murmured to herself. 'George's boots...'

Struck by a sudden idea, she snatched up the photograph, and saw in it what had always been there to see, what nobody had noticed before.

'No...' she murmured. 'Can it be?'

All at once, it flashed into her mind: what had happened, and how, and why. But if it was true, those footsteps boded no good to... someone. Who? But that didn't matter. She knew that she must act quickly; she was out on the landing before it occurred to her that, alone, she could do little, and might not be believed. She turned and dashed along the landing and down the stairs, skidded along the hall, and burst into the drawing room.

'Inspector!' she cried, 'Come! Come quickly!'

Edith looked around, startled. 'Jane!'

'What's the matter?' the inspector demanded.

'The maids!' Jane gasped. 'You must speak to them – _now_!'

'Why on earth...?' But Inspector Gerrard was already on his feet, impressed by her urgency despite himself.

'Please. They may be in terrible danger. _Please_. Come with me.'

With a glance over her shoulder to make sure that they were following close behind her, Jane turned and pelted down the hall, through the green baize door, and up the back stairs. 'Please,' she prayed, not knowing whether or not she spoke aloud, 'let us not be too late!'

She had to stop at the top: the geography of this side of the house was alien to her. But Edith pushed past her and, grabbing her hand, dragged her onwards, up another flight of stairs to the attic.

Even above the clatter of footsteps on bare stairs, they could hear a horrible choking noise. Edith hammered on the door; it flew open.

'No, you don't!' bellowed Inspector Gerrard.

For there was Kenneth Hereward, his back to the door, his feet planted wide on the bare wood floor, and his thumbs pressing into the throat of the terrified Mabel.


	9. Afterwards

'But Jane,' Edith said, 'how did you know?'

'It was the boots,' Jane said at once.

It was three days later. Kenneth Hereward had been discreetly removed by the police. Mabel Bates had been examined by the doctor, who had diagnosed no permanent damage. George Wilson had confessed to a shameful stack of gambling debts, and apologised for being a boor. Jane and Edith were walking arm-in-arm on the lawn. Had anyone been looking, they would have seen a pair of devoted friends: nothing less, nothing more. Even their conversation was innocent, if, perhaps, indelicate.

'The _boots_?'

'Isn't it obvious?' But Jane supposed that perhaps it wasn't. 'George's boots, that Mrs Cobb was complaining about. Muddy boots, outside his door. But George had never left the house that morning.'

'I don't think I see,' Edith said.

'Well, where did the boots come from? Who was the only person who might have had muddy boots? Mr Hereward.'

'But he couldn't have got back in, surely.' Edith frowned. 'And yet he must have done.'

'Think about the doors,' Jane urged. 'There are two doors to the study: the one from the hall, and the one from the vestibule – in effect, the one from the servants' corridor. We have to rule out the hall: by pure chance, it was watched all the time. How can one get to the other door, the vestibule? The kitchen, the back door? Impossible, with all the bustle of the household. So much for the ground floor. But the first floor, now...'

' _Oh_ ,' Edith breathed. 'The back stairs.'

Jane smiled. 'Yes. Or, rather, the window at the top of them. Easy enough, for an athletic young man, to climb up the trellis, and in at that window, and then he only needs to creep down the stairs. The only danger – apart from the thorns, of course – is from his boots, either that he'll tramp mud about the place, or that his footsteps will be heard. So I think he must sit on the windowsill, unlace his boots, and then leave them outside your brother's door.'

'Why George's?'

'Perhaps just because it's the closest to the back stairs.'

Edith nodded. 'That explains poor Mabel – she must have seen the boots, and known they weren't George's, or that they were there and then had been taken away, or...'

'Or perhaps she didn't draw any conclusion at all, but Mr Hereward thought that she had, or that she might.'

'It seems like a bit of a stretch,' Edith said. 'And why would he kill Uncle Leonard? Did he need money, or something? We never heard of it, if he did.'

'That was what I thought, at first,' Jane said. 'But it was something quite different.' She hesitated, let go of Edith's waist, and searched for her hand instead. 'You remember how, the night I arrived, Mr Hereward made a remark about my being “hard as brazzle”.'

Edith blushed, and Jane thought how well it suited her. 'You know I do.'

'You were shocked. So was your uncle. _You_ might have good reason to be upset, because –' Jane permitted herself a small smile – 'your fiancé was flirting with your friend. But why should your uncle care?'

'I thought that he thought that Kenneth was uncouth.' Edith frowned. 'As did I.'

Jane paused. 'Quite. _Kenneth_. His nephew. Who had been born on the other side of the world, whose mother had no doubt been brought up a lady and had no connection with the family business, whose father came from Sussex. Who had probably never heard a phrase like _brazzle_ in his life.'

Behind them, Inspector Gerrard cleared his throat. 'Who died on the voyage to Southampton.'

Jane dropped Edith's hand hastily. 'Did he, indeed? I suppose that was where Mr Blake met him.'

'Mr Blake?' Edith was the picture of bewilderment.

Jane laughed. 'Yes, Edith, you showed me yourself. That picture! Who is the woman with the baby? She clearly isn't your mother. Is she your aunt Alice? No, you said that your cousin was born in Australia. Besides, the man with his hand on her shoulder is Mr Curran Blake. Surprising – because none of you ever mentioned that he was married.'

'I never thought of him as having _been_ married,' Edith said. 'He was devoted to Uncle Leonard, you know.'

Jane nodded. 'But that still leaves a woman and a baby unaccounted for, and who could they be but Mr Blake's wife and child? Perhaps they died – perhaps both of them died. Your family would avoid mentioning them so as to spare Mr Blake distress, and that would account perfectly well for the sense that you told me about, of the existence of some party who was never spoken about. But what if one of them hadn't died, after all? What if the baby had grown up to become a man?'

'A man,' Edith said drily, 'who was passed over in favour of his father's god-daughter, who thought that the ideal way of exacting revenge would be to marry her and claim his father's fortune that way. Until a more... _immediate_ solution occurred to him. Mother!' she called suddenly, 'why did we never hear of Uncle Curran's son?'

Mrs Wilson was approaching across the lawn. 'He was a great disappointment,' she said, when she was near enough not to have to shout. 'He was expelled from school – two schools, I believe – and Mr Blake could never manage him. Had his mother lived, of course... but one can't tell.'

'So then he was sent out to Australia?' Edith prompted.

'Yes. And then, it seems, he came back.'

'And he took the place of the real Kenneth Hereward,' the inspector said.

'How long had he been with you?' Jane asked. 'A month, more? He must have thought he was safe. And then – that one unfortunate word – the family resemblance became obvious – your uncle recognised him – he took steps to silence him.'

'How awful,' Edith said. 'It needn't have happened at all. Knowing Uncle Leonard, he'd have forgiven everything, if only he'd told the truth.'

Mrs Wilson nodded sadly. 'I believe he would,' she said. Then, making a conspicuous effort to change her tone, 'But my dears, that isn't why I came to talk to you at all. Edith, your Aunt Etty - that's _my_ sister -' she explained to Jane, parenthetically, 'has written to say that she's planning a trip to Italy, and would you care to join her?'

'Oh!' Somehow, Edith looked simultaneously enchanted and dismayed.

Mrs Wilson smiled. 'She writes, _One realises of course that girls need their freedom these days, and I fear it will be fearfully tiresome for poor Edith having to spend all her time with old crones such as me and my acquaintance. Does she have any special friend, do you know, who might be persuaded to accompany us..._ ' She paused and looked meaningfully at Jane.

Edith grasped Jane's hand. 'Would you come with me? Aunt Etty's a sweetheart, really she is.'

As if Jane would not follow Edith to the ends of the earth! 'I should have to write to Mama, of course,' she said, but her heart was singing. 'It sounds delightful.'

'I should be most grateful,' Mrs Wilson said. 'More grateful, of course, than I am already. Edith has had a bad shock; she ought to have a complete change.'

'But what about you, Mother?' Edith asked. 'I feel that we oughtn't to leave you alone.'

'My dear, so long as you're with Etty and Miss Marple, I needn't worry about you,' was the reply. 'I have friends here. I shall survive, you know.'

And this, Jane felt, was true. Mrs Wilson was, above all else, a survivor. For an instant, she felt an overwhelming pity for her, left alone of all her generation, out here in the wild Marches, with winter on its way.

But Edith's hand was warm in Jane's, and the bright sun and the immense blue of the Mediterranean spread out in her mind's eye, and, for herself and for the woman she loved, she could feel only happiness.


End file.
